she was watching: the woman and the clergyman in his study, drinking tea out of fine white porcelain. So normal. She could have been one of his congregation: innocent, seeking guidance for her life. About a relationship perhaps? With some young farmer? He looked at her in a paternal way and she knew: he likes me, he thinks I?m okay.
?My father was in the army,? she said.
He sipped his tea to gauge the temperature.
?He was an officer. I was born in Upington; he was a captain then. My mother was a housewife at first. Later on she worked at the attorneys? office. Sometimes he was away on the Border for long stretches, but I only remember that vaguely, because I was still small. I am the oldest; my brother was born two years after me. Gerhard. Christine and Gerhard van Rooyen, the children of Captain
His eyes were on her face, her mouth. Was he listening, really hearing her? Did he see her as she was? Would he remember later, when she revealed her great fraud? She was quiet for a moment, lifting the cup to her lips, sipping, saying self-consciously: ?It will take a long time to tell you everything.?
?That is one thing we have lots of here,? he said calmly. ?There is lots of time.?
She gestured at the door. ?You have a family and I??
?They know I am here and they know it?s my work.?
?Perhaps I should come back tomorrow.?
?Tell your story, Christine,? he said softly. ?Get it off your chest.?
?Sure??
?Absolutely.?
She looked down at her cup. It was half full. She lifted it, swallowed the lot in one go, replaced it on the saucer and put it down on the tray on the desk. She drew her leg under her again and folded her arms. ?I don?t know where it went wrong,? she said. ?We were like everyone else. Maybe not quite, because my father was a soldier, and at school we were always the army kids. When the
flew out, those airplanes to the border, the whole town knew about it?our fathers were going to fight the Communists. Then we were special. I liked that. But most of the time we were like all the others. Gerhard and I went to school and in the afternoon our mother was there and we did homework and played. Weekends we went shopping and barbecued and visited and went to church and every December we went down to Hartenbos and there was nothing odd about us. Nothing that I was aware of when I was six or eight or ten. My father was my hero. I remember his smell when he came home in the afternoon and hugged me. He called me his big girl. He had a uniform with shiny stars on the shoulders. And my mother . . .?
?Are they still living?? the minister asked suddenly.
?My father died,? she said. With finality, as if she would not elaborate further.
?And your mother??
?It?s a long time since I have seen her.?
?Oh??
?She lives in Mossel Bay.?
He said nothing.
?She knows now. What kind of work I was doing.?
?But she didn?t always know??
?No.?
?How did she find out??
She sighed. ?That is part of the story.?
?And you think she will reject you? Because now she knows??
?Yes. No . . . I think she is on a guilt trip.?
?Because you became a prostitute??
?Yes.?
?And is she to blame??
She couldn?t sit still anymore. She stood up in a hurry, and walked over to the wall behind her to get more distance between them. Then she approached the back of the chair and gripped it.
?Maybe.?
?Oh??
She dropped her head, letting her long hair cover her face. She stood like that, very still.
?She was beautiful,? she said at last, looking up and taking her hands off the chair-back. She moved to the right, towards the bookshelf, her eyes on the books, but she was not seeing them.
?They were in Durban on their honeymoon. And the photos . . . She could have had any man. She had a figure. Her face . . . she was so lovely, so delicate. And she was laughing, in all the photos. Sometimes I believe that was the last time she laughed.?
